


The Burning Tower

by TheIceDragons



Series: The Wolf that steals the Dragon [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragons, Female Jon Snow, Fire, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows nothing, Multi, R plus L equals J, Red Wedding, The North remembers, War of the Five Kings, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-01-21 11:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12456272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIceDragons/pseuds/TheIceDragons
Summary: Dragons are brought back into the world, but the North sees them first.





	1. flame and ash

  **The Bastard of Winterfell**

There's a chill in the air from the gentle summer snows, Lyarra tries to block out the cool air, stoking the logs within the hearth. And atop of these logs, sit three shimmering stones.  She'd found them beneath the crypt.  She'd often go there for comfort, resting her head against the stone wall, near the crypt of her Aunt Lyanna. She would stare up at the statue, eyes tracing over the curve of her lips, her sweet playful smile. And she would wonder if it was as beautiful in life as it was in death.  It had to be, everyone always said so whenever they'd compare Lyarra to her likeness.  Claiming she was Lyanna come again, much to lady Catelyn’s chagrin, with her dark eyes, long pale face and hair so dark it almost seemed black.

 

Although Lyarra doesn't really think so, they say Lyanna Stark was beautiful, Lyarra never thought herself as beautiful.  Not in all her six and ten years has anyone ever genuinely called her beautiful, save her father and Robb.  But that was her _father_ and _Robb,_ that's what they're supposed to say.  

 

Now Sansa, she was turning out to be a real beauty, and held great promise for it in the future. But Lyarra? No, she doesn't think so. But it didn't help much, with how she always makes herself fade into the background, to keep everyone's stares at bay, their attention away from the Bastard of Winterfell. She always wore dark woolen dresses to blend in with the grey ancient walls, to camouflage and disappear. And it worked to, all until the king came to Winterfell, for he noticed her right away. _Lyanna_ he had called her, and she cursed her aunt, cursed the gods and herself for making it seem so. Though, she felt guilty about it afterwards.  It wasn't Lyanna or the gods and for the first time not even herself that was at fault.  It was King Robert, and everyone who remembered when the she-wolf breathed air.  Always trying to find that willfulness and wildness in her that they claimed was in Lyanna, hoping they can have their she-wolf again only to be left disappointed when they don't.  She couldn't afford to be willful or wild, it didn't help that she was a bastard girl, two strikes in society stacked against her.

 

It makes her all the more bitter and melancholy.  Like most of Winterfell.  It was silent, it's never been this silent, so eerily quiet.  And the only sound that rings through the air is the howling of wolves, their howls the only sound being carried in the cold winds.  Only two were missing, Lady and Nymeria. No, not two, not truly.   _Three_ wolves were missing.  Sansa, Arya and father, venturing south, faraway from the North, from Winterfell, from family. The thought made her shiver.  ‘ _Starks don't fare well in the south,’_ Old Nan had once told her. _‘They're Northerners, they belong in the north, lest something tragic happens and it always does’._  But what happens when the Northmen stay in the north, but the southerners leave the south?

 

Bran’s frail little body comes to mind, deathly pale and barely breathing.  She can feel an ache forming in her chest, tears ready to swell but she swallows it all down.   _There's no use in crying_ , she thinks, _tears won't help anyone. And a bastards tears mean little, a bastard can't afford it.’_ she feels bitterness clawing at her again, but forces that down to.

 

_‘Let me give you some advice bastard.  Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you.’_ she remembers those harsh but wise words, stained in her memory. _‘What do you know about being a bastard?’ she had retorted quickly. ‘All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes,’_ _he replied, yet she was still not convinced, placing her hands on her hips, ire rising. ‘And what could you possibly know about being a woman and a bastard in a world where men hate them both.’_ _he’d been taken aback, mouth gaped open, before recovering quickly from his bemusement, a smile that almost seemed sad and eyes gleaming in curiosity. ‘Well, I don't know much about it.  Most men don't, and that shall be their greatest downfall and your strongest weapon,’_ she had seen the truth of it then, had understood.

 

The fire in the logs died down and she found herself slowly reaching her hand in, gently touching the curve of the stone.  When she’d first held it in her hands, it had felt...alive. Alive with heat, and a vibration that made her hand tremble. In fear or anticipation she couldn't decide. She could understand the fear but anticipation… It was all odd, all so queer. The stones and the Dire-wolves. Dire-wolves that haven't been seen south of the wall for hundreds of years, and they suddenly re-appear.  A mother wolf with a stags antler in her throat, her children left to fend for themselves. And they wouldn't have survived had their party not happened upon them. It was strange, _a sign_ , yet father never believed in signs.

 

And the stones… whenever she was near them she heard a constant chant play in her head, sometimes stealing sleep from her and haunting them when she did. _Fire. Fire,_ they'd chant repeatedly.  Once it had gotten so bad, she was half convinced to take them to her father.  Until she remembered how quick he was in deciding the fate of the Dire wolf pups, had she not been there… She couldn't fathom the thought of not having Ghost at her side, it was as if the she-wolf belonged with Lyarra, like an extension of her soul-’ _No you go too far,’_ she chastised herself, ‘ _she's just a companion’_. She looks at the pile of white fur snuggled comfortably in her bed, before looking back at the stones.

 

There was one, that was the darkest shade of indigo, another that was as white as snow with specks of blue and gold, while the other was black with specks of red. It was odd, really, why would she need to protect _stones_ from her lord father, when they are just that, stones.  Yet she'd also been reluctant in showing her siblings, still hasn't to be exact. For they were beautiful and _hers_ . One look around her room and you'd think it belonged to a guest or servant, she didn't have pretty decorations or items saved from fond memories, like her siblings. It was a mother's job to bestow that type of love onto her child, to put that much thought and care and love into the child’s life, even into their rooms. And Lyarra didn't have a mother, Lady Catelyn had made sure she'd known that when Lyarra once made the mistake of calling the woman ‘mama’.  But these… they belong to her and she cherished them. She _loved_ them.

 

The pleads and chants for fire weren't the only thing plaguing her dreams. Although in these dreams she found an strange sort of peace among them. Some nights she would dream of flying, the wind kissing her hot skin, as she looked below her from the heavens. _The heavens,_ she would marvel, and think herself a god, far more pride and confidence than she has when she wakes. Then on other nights, she'd be on the solid ground, strong and aware of every detail.  She would smell her prey, smell the fresh and moist soil, hear the small little creatures feet sinking into it. And when her game was caught, she could taste the blood, it would flow warmly down her throat and she'd relish the sweet taste.  But when she woke she could still taste the iron on her tongue and bile would rise in her throat.  Lyarra didn't know what to make of these dreams, didn't know if she wanted them to continue or stop.

 

She stared at the stones intently, a sudden urge building within her, fingers twitching. She wanted to know what they were, why they looked the way they looked, why she could feel heat radiating and feel vibration, why they always chanted fire. Why did they want fire. _Is this magic, sorcery of some kind, did I happen upon cursed stones?_ Perhaps this is a punishment from the old gods, for always wanting more than I have, more than I have any right to want.

 

_Fire. Fire,_ they chanted once again.  The Library Tower. There were scrolls and tomes dating back thousands of years ago, there has to be some parchment that contains some information, even just a little, to where she could form a hypothesis, a reason, if not a conclusion based on fact. She grabs a thick woolen cloak, grabbing the hot stones, that mysteriously didn't leave blemishes on her skin, and placing them in the center of the cloak before tying it all together. She carriers the improvised sack of stones out of her room, soon exiting the Great Keep making her way toward the tower.

 

The wind howled and so did the wolves, giving an ominous warning, and a foreboding feeling sinks within her.  She quickly shakes the feel away, drowning it out with her curiosity for the pretty stones. There are few people outside, but she ignored them as they have always done her but she misses those aqua blue eyes watching her from afar.  She walks the up the cobblestone steps, entering the tower.  Immediately she's engulfed in the scents of old parchment and ink.  She sees scrolls scattered about, piling on chairs and tables, scrunched up in the shelves.  Maester Luwin often made use of this place, practically his playground.  He preferred it over the Maester's tower, if that said anything, giving the children of Winterfell lessons here or meeting with her Lord Father.  She goes to a nearby table, placing the cloak on top before unwrapping the stones, they shimmered in the dim torch light. She goes to light the hearth, bringing back a candle to settle on the table.  then goes to the shelves. For maester you'd think he'd be more organized, she ticks her tongue, trying to find anything related to minerals and stones. Until she hears something crash, abruptly turning around to see ink splatter on the floor along with a few parchment. When she looks up to see the corporate, her heart freezes.

 

His face is ugly and grim, eyes shining menacingly, mouth twisted in a sneer. His dirty blonde hair shined in the light, his eyes a dull green.  A dagger in hand, he slowly walks toward her and she instinctively backs away, heart pounding. She wants to scream but she can't, “You're not supposed to be here little girl,” he says insidiously.  Her back hits the table, and she's vaguely aware of the stone that nearly roles off.

 

“No,”she croaks out, her voice small, shaking her head.

 

He lunges at her, hand gripping her mouth to muffle her screams, dagger ready to pierce. Her hand grasp onto, the steel cold and biting into her skin, the harder she gripped the deeper the slice. It hurts like hell, but all she can think about is not dying, not the pain she feels now, but brutal end she will meet later.  She struggles, making the table creak and tip over, his large form falling top of her, knocking the air out of her lungs. She can smell smoke and burning parchment, when he wraps his hands around her throat, discarding the knife entirely.  The smoke only grows along with the heat, but he doesn't seem to care, so focused on choking the life out of her. She claws his hands, nails digging until flesh is beneath them, but it makes him squeeze harder.  He's panting and his breath smells of mead and ale. His eye's are sinister and hateful.  Her hands thrash around, trying to find something, anything, as her vision slowly slips and darkens. Her hand finds the cold steel that would have ended her sooner. She grabs hold of it, haggardly thrusting it into his neck.  His blood sprays onto her when she pulls out, before he collapses onto her.

 

The fire has spread by now, burning through shelves of books and scrolls, adding fuel to the flames.  It engulfed everything around her, biting at her hair, as she tries to push his limp body off of her.  She can smell his skin cooking and she wonders if hers does the same, for she can smell her burning hair, can feel the fire kissing her skin.  Yet it is all so pleasantly warm, even when the flames begin to turn her woolen dress into ash.

 

Lyarra knows she's going to die, knew it when she first saw those menacing eyes and fleshy sneer.

 

The weight of his dead body doesn't feel so heavy anymore, rolling from under him with little trouble. Her stones are near her, painted in blood just as much as she is. There still beautiful, she thinks.  The flames engulf her body completely and it felt like a dip in the hot springs. It isn't as painful as she thought it’d be, she doesn't feel any pain at all. She never thought dying by fire could be so calm and peaceful.

 

Uncle Benjen had once told her that harsh snows could give you the same.  Said that it’d creep on you peacefully, after a while, a warm fuzzy feel embracing you as death came gently.  The most peaceful way a man can go, but most men never get. That's what his fellow Brother's had told him, those that ventured beyond the Wall when snow storms nearly killed them. Perhaps fire was the same, but no one's ever lived to tell it.

 

Fire. Mayhaps it wasn't any different from ice. _Ice and Fire,_ they're both dangerous and compassionate. She closes her eyes in content.

  
Her blood starts to rush, her panting becomes rapid, before the sound of cracking exterior is heard. At first she thinks it's the ceiling or perhaps another shelf until she hears a shriek.  It is faint and small amongst the chaos but she hears it all the same. Then another and another.  The sounds of tiny wailing and shrieking ring throughout the smoky tower and her heart beat quickens. Then she feels it, feels _them_.  Their small silky bodies wrapped around her thigh, arm and breast. Lyarra is overwhelmed with the sudden feelings of love and comfort, rising from the ash and flame.


	2. unburnt

He draws his arrows, aiming for the target.  It flies through the air, singing with the wind, before landing in the center.  He's been going at it for a good minute, long after everyone else has left the yard, only few linger about.  Theon had to get away from the keep, from the howling of wolves, the sound making him uneasy. And those gloomy Starks, brooding more than usual.  Although he didn't blame them, not after what happened to Bran.  He'd seen the little boys broken form, splayed onto the ground, his bones twisted and bent in ways that made Theon cringe.

 

Still, they're making horrible company to be around, especially Robb, who has far to many task and responsibilities as the Lord. And Lyarra...well he’s never liked her company much, with her sullen nature and cold attitude. Although, she is pretty to look at. As if conjured by thought alone she hurriedly passed him to the Library Tower.  He looks at her curiously, glimpsing the sack she carries in her hand.  He has the sudden urge to pry and taunt her, but he shrugs the thought away returning to his archery.

 

Nocking the arrow, drawing it, then setting it loose, on and on he goes, like second nature to him. Until he smells smoke.  At first he writes it off as smoke from the kitchens, but then it thickens. He looks up to see clouds of it, trailing from a nearby tower.  The Library Tower. _‘Shit.’_ he initially thinks.

 

A guard comes running by, gathering the yards attention, “There's a fire! Near the Library Tower, we need as many hands we can get to put it out!” he points to the towers direction frantically.

 

Ser Rodrik appears soon after, giving out orders and gathering buckets of water and snow.  But Theon doesn't stay to see the rest of it, instead he runs to the Lords Solar. Robb’s.

 

Robb sits there, behind the ironwood desk, his face is tired and pale, and he looks older than his six and ten years. His blue eyes look up from some parchment in hand, dark circles underneath them. He furrows his brow, “Theon? What is it?” he looks at Theon’s panicked face, rising from his chair, “What has happened? Is it...Bran?”

 

“No, it's Lyarra,”Robb hastily leaves the room, grabbing Theon along with him, never giving him a chance to finish his sentence.

 

“What has happened to my sister?” his voice is dark and commanding, but he can see the worry in his blue eyes.

 

“The Library Tower, it caught fire and I saw her go toward it moments before.” Robb breaks off into speed after that, Theon trailing behind. They exit the Great Keep, running past all the assembled guards and men.

 

The roof of the tower slightly caved in, the flames engulfing the wood on the stairway and structure. One look at the tower, and Robb readies himself to go in. _The fool._ Theon pulls him back, “There's nothing you can do now,” he says gravely.  Robb stops struggling, looking at the tower helplessly. He turns to face him, trying to hold back tears that Theon can see glistening in his eyes.  He shoves the Ironborn out his way, hoping to retreat.

 

All until he hears shrieking, shrieks that Theon has never heard the likes of. Everyone hears them, freezing in their place. It sounds again, and it's unearthly, it's terrifying. It is silent again, and all one can hear is the sounds of dancing flames and uncanny wails. It was as if the yard of men were cast under a spell of silence.  Then Ser Rodrik breaks it with the demand for more water.   They all continue, moving to and fro.  Yet he knew everyone was shaken from the wails they heard.  Dread seeps into him, as he looks at Robb, his blue eyes filled with pain and terror.

 

He never moves, and neither does Robb.  They stay there for what seems like hours, watching the flames die down.  The sky a darkest shade of midnight blue, the hour is of the wolf, and he can hear them howling in the distance.  

 

He closes his eyes with a sigh.  The Stark’s were turning out to be an unlucky lot, Bran’s fall and now _this_. Those shrill wails could still be heard, it was sickening to listen to. To think his prying and taunting would have prevented tragedy.

 

“By the gods!” he hears a man say, and soon everyone erupted in gasps, he opens his eyes to see why.

 

Theon’s heart nearly freezes at the sight of her, naked as the day she was born, not a hair on her body.  No blemish or burnt skin.  The only thing that covers her is ash and… this time he thinks his heart does stop.  Because she's covered in... _dragons_.  They have to be. They're little scaly winged beast wrapped around her breast, shoulder, and thigh. She emerged from the flames, almost gracefully walking down the scolding hot steps. Any other person would have been in agony at the touch, but it was obvious she wasn't any person. It's like she's in a trance, and the men are entranced with her. Their eyes following her naked form until it stops at the bottom of the steps.  

 

For the first time since she's stepped out of the burning tower, she becomes aware of the situation, aware of the eyes upon her naked body.  Some were filled with awe, others with... _something else._  Theon thinks he has both.  Her face is panicked, hands trying to preserve what little modesty is left, eyes searching the crowd of men before landing on Robb.

 

“Robb?” she doesn't need to say anything more before he runs to her.  Unclasping his cloak and passing it to her.  The little monsters adjust themselves around her when she throws the cloak over her form.  Robb then grabs her, leading her away from everyone's prying eyes, until their forms recede in the distance.

  
Theon doesn't know what to think or say.  He can't even begin to comprehend what just took place.


	3. the seven

Her little boy laid there, pale and barely breathing, with his raspy draws of breath. Trying to cling onto what little life is left in his small broken body.  It made her want to cry and yell, hoping she can wake him from  this deep sleep, this cursed stupor. Hoping he will wake and ask what's distressing his mother, in that thoughtful way he always did.  But he won't wake from this slumber, no amount of screaming, crying or praying would change that. Because it wasn't just sleep, it was a coma and he may never open his eyes again. It makes her want to cry more, but she has no more tears to shed.  Just the strong feelings of bitterness and sorrow, that made her want to scream more than sob.

 

 _Why my son?_ she asks the gods, but she knows they will not respond, refuses to respond to the likes of her, and she knows why.  This was her atonement, her punishment and their wrath, for the promise she once made and broke a thousand times over.  She remembers the sickly little girl and every cough, wheeze and breath she took that seemed to drain the life out of her.  She remembered the fear and guilt she felt. It was _her_ , she did that, she _prayed_ for it.  She saw how distraught her husband had become, how her son broke down every few minutes at the thought of losing his sister, his friend.  Catelyn  could still feel her tiny cold hand in her warm one, could remember the hours she spent working feverently on the prayer wheel and the ache in her knees from bending down in prayer.  For once, she had cared for the child, protected her how a mother should, helping her get better, even started to grow fond of her.  Until she did get better, then she stopped caring. Catelyn started to remember who she was, and what the little girl represented in her life.  

 

This was because of her, because she couldn't keep a promise, couldn't love a motherless child, and now she will lose her own.

 

She may never see those blue eyes, so much like her own, may never see those eyes to old for his age, may never see the light and joy he once held in them. Hovering between life and death, the Stranger stood close by, ready to take the prized soul of an innocent.

 

 _But I won't let him,_ she thinks, _I won't give up on my son, when there's still hope left._  She looks toward the small altar she set up, candle wax melted to the brim and hard on the floor of it.  The Mother, the Father, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Crone, the Smith and the Stranger all sat vigilant, almost taunting and daring her to pray some more, to light another candle for their favor, asking for the Mothers mercy and Fathers forgiveness.  Begging for the Stranger to release the clutches of death from around her son. All so they can ignore her pleas once more.  She goes to them anyway, knees bent and head bowed, hands folded in her lap.  She sits there, thinking of all the things she can apologize for, in hopes they return her son.  But even Catelyn knows that actions speak louder than words, and that was all she had given them the moment she made that promise.  

 

There was no going back now, no redemption with Snow, for she was a child no longer, craved that motherly affection no longer, she's accepted that she'll never have it and their barley nonexistent relationship was way past fixing.   _If only_ , she thought, she prayed, _you gave me one more chance, that's all I ask of you.  Just one more,_ her eyes were shut so tightly, like a child earnestly wishing on a star. They strained when she opened them again, to the sound of that damned howling.  They were at it _again_ , those wolves, and the sound only seemed to edge closer, drowning out any thought she could conjure.

 

She buries her fingers into her hair, tangling into the knots and creating more, as she takes hold of it with an iron grip.   _Why won't they be silent?  Why won't anyone shut them up?_  They  do this every night, howling from nightfall til dawn, making the ache in Catelyn’s head intensify.

 

The howls stop for a moment, frantic shouting and panic takes its place.   _Fire_ , they screamed, _water_.  It was the only thing they could say, the only thing they could evoke into wandering minds.

 

She looks out the window, to see what's caused disruption to her prayer and thoughts.  Flames in the distance is what she sees, roaring brightly, casting a looming shadow on the ground, casting light onto the walls.  It was terrifying, it was beautiful, it was sad.  It was the Library Tower, with books that the Stark’s have collected and carried since Aegon's Conquest.  Perhaps even dating back before, to the Age of Heroes.  The fire made her wince, after so long of sitting in the dark room -despite the dim light of the hearth- her eyes strained against the bright flame, even from a great distance.

 

She opens the window, the smell of smoke wafting in, and the shouts become clearer. It's a good handful of men out there, enough to weaken the flames if only a little, she didn't need to worry but she watched on anyway.  They scurried around like little ants from her view point, gathering water and fallen snow.  She closes her eyes, letting the breeze brush against her skin. It's been weeks since she breathed in fresh air, never bothering to open the window in hopes of blocking out the howling, but now they've seemed to quiet down, if only a little. A little whimper here, a little howl there,  the frantic shouting and panic of the world below evaded them.

 

It was strange, how oddly quiet it became. One moment the ground below her was filled with alarm and panic, now it's settled into an eerie silence, almost calm for a few pacing moments, until the random feeling of foreboding sinks within her.   _How quiet it's become,_ she thinks dreadfully.  She looks toward the bed of furs, the shell of a body that was once her lively little boy.  She goes to him, resting a kiss upon his head, before leaving the room entirely.

 

This is the most she's used her legs in what seems like ages, walking through the halls and corridors, all of which were empty. It was as if Winterfell itself were dead and barren, not like the usual calm isolation she grew to love. _Because he left.  He left me and I told him to leave.  Winterfell will never be the same Winterfell without him or without my girls...without Bran_.  She needed to get out of this train of thought, before she succumbed back into her delirious state and locked herself away again.

  
She snapped out of her reverie at the sight of her son, and Snow in his arms.  He carries her, a look of relief yet panic in his visage.  The sight of the girl gives her pause, with her ash covered skin and head completely bald. She tries to glimpse her face but it's buried in Robb’s chest. Realization hits her, the girl was in the fire. And barely made it out by the unconscious state she is in. The dread she felt earlier grows stronger. They don't say words, but they exchange knowing looks that read the same thing.


	4. catspaw

It wasn't possible, it  _ isn't _ possible.  Had she not witnessed the tower burn down, had she not seen the scaly beast that clung to the girls ash covered body, she would have thought her son mad. The tale he spun, it was something out of Old Nan’s stories, out of a horror story.  _ She came from the flames, _ he said,  _ completely unburnt _ . By all accounts she should be dead, charred bones, nothing but the ash that covered her skin.   _ She should be dead. _  But she isn't, she is  _ unburnt _ , and she has dragons pawing at her unconscious form.  _ Dragons _ .  When she first saw them, she thought she'd truly gone insane, but then she heard them shriek and wail as the girl was placed onto a bed, and knew them to be real.

 

Dragons, she is living in a time of dragons.  Beast that she read about when she was but a girl doing her lessons. Mythical creatures that went extinct one hundred-fifty years ago, until now.  Because of the girl, the bastard, the Snow that emerged from flames, completely immune to it.   _ Fire cannot burn a dragon, _ that's something else she read about in the history books, but never believed it to be true, after all it was the mad Aerion Targaryen who claimed as much, and was foolhardy  enough to test the theory himself. But Snow was a different matter altogether. It didn't take her long to figure it out. She has a Dragon in her presence.  Her family has been harboring a Dragon, unknowingly committing treason.  

 

She looked down at the girl in her unconscious state, Robb dipping the cloth in his hand into the bowl of water in his lap. He was the only one the dragons tolerated around the girl, they wouldn't even let her come an inch, as if sensing the hostility that was between them. But it didn't stop her from watching from afar, as Robb ran the cloth over her face, like she once did so many years ago, cleaning off dirt and ash instead of sweat and tears. He had stated her skin was hot whenever his fingers ran over it, like a cooling pot of boiled water.  “The blood in her veins have never been this apparent, like running rivers of red.” It was then that she realized it was boiling, the blood itself was  _ boiling _ , and she is still  _ alive _ .  

 

Her eyes outline her cheeks that she never realized were high; most likely because the girl always had that hair of hers covering most of her face. Her nose was sharp and her lips were full.  When she looks at her-  _ really _ looks at her-the girl looks nothing like a Stark save her coloring.  She doesn't know if that should delight her or frighten her. But it's the truth. She imagines this is what Rhaella looked like in her youth or perhaps the first Rhaenys.  Like a Targaryen Queen of old, hauntingly beautiful and regal.  How could she have not seen it before? How did she miss it?  How did everyone miss it?  

 

_ Lyanna _ .  The name is almost like a curse, bringing about emotions of shame and resentment.   _ Lyanna, we were all so caught up on comparing her to Lyanna, of proving how Stark she was, we forgot to look for anything else.  Thank the gods. _  But she can't  thank them any longer, with the hatchlings looming around the other side of the bed.  Everyone saw her, and saw them.  This will not go unnoticed, cannot be explained away.  Soon the entire realm will know, they will put the pieces together and come down on her family like a storm.  Especially the Crown, and her husband and children are walking right into a Lion's Den. The thought made her stomach lurch.  Her husband will be killed, her daughter's put to the sword.  She clenched her hand into a fist, nails digging into her palms.

 

“Mother,” Robb inquires softly, but she brushes him off, shaking her head.

 

“I'm fine, it is nothing,” but it's a lie, nothing is fine.  Her family is in more danger than she can even begin to comprehend. Ned, Sansa, Arya. Surrounded by Stags and Lions who will see them killed for this. She couldn't tell Robb, could not burden his young mind with something far beyond him, at least not right now.  Not after she neglected him for so long, leaving him to run and lord over the keep on his own, but the part of her that wasn't going mad with anger and frustration managed to feel some pride for him, for doing it all on his own in the midst of this madness. “We will talk later,”

 

Catelyn will not accept this, will not accept or resign herself to the possible downfall of her family.  She needed to warn Ned, somehow, before he reached King's Landing, before he reached his end.  She couldn't meet him there, not with something like this, not with this treason.  The walls in the Viper's Den have to many eyes and ears.  She could meet him on the road, inform him of the fire, tell him that Lyarra was in it.  But that would look to suspicious, for the Lady of Winterfell to  _ come herself _ to inform her Lord Husband of anything involving his bastard. For her to care so suddenly… no, questions would arise, she didn't need the Lannisters questioning her or her family.  She could send someone else, someone loyal to House Stark.  _ Like Ser Rodrik, yes send Ser Rodrik.  He can take a few guards with him, carrying a missive, telling of the fire, of Lyarra.  He'll move far faster than the King's entourage, quick enough to catch up with them. _  She thanks the Seven for the burnt tower, the only time she thinks she ever will, it will give her reason to send after him.  It's going to bring her husband back home, her daughter's back home, where they belong.

* * *

Catelyn entered his solar, hours after Snow was cleaned of ash and the smell of smoke. Now was the time to speak to him, yet she had nothing to say, and neither did he.  It didn't help that Theon sat amongst them, making it all the more uncomfortable, but that was more on her part than Robb’s.  He's always taken a liking to the Greyjoy heir, something she was indifferent to. Though she never liked his behavior or reputation for visiting brothels. His forever present smirk was now missing, which was strange for him.  It was rare for him to take anything seriously, always grinning his way through troubles, yet even he seems to stunned to find humor in the situation.

 

The solar was deathly quiet, no one wanting to risk making any approach or trigger an argument between mother and son. It was rare for it to get to this point, but when it did, they preferred to be silent.  No one wanted to pin point the elephant in the room, no one wished to speak of it out loud, though a part of her wondered if they even knew what it was.  If they knew the deadly secret that her husband had kept hidden for so long. Perhaps not, she would need to explain.   _ All the more reason for the Greyjoy to leave, _ she thought.  No matter how much her son cared for him or thought of him as a brother, she couldn't bring herself to trust him.

 

“We need to speak of Lyarra,” she finally says, pulling off the uncomfortable blanket of silence along with its false sense of security.  She can hear the boy  _ tsk _ from across the room, as if to say it was the most obvious thing.  Catelyn didn't hesitate to throw him a look, showing just how much she wanted him here, and how quickly she would send him away.  She turns to gaze upon her son again, “Are you even slightly aware of the situation?  Do you know what any of this this means?”

 

He sighs, running his hand over his face in stress, “She was attacked.”

 

His response does nothing but make her frown in confusion.  He couldn't possibly be serious right now, not when they needed to get to the main point. “Robb, what is it that you-” but he cuts her off before she can finish.

 

“She was attacked mother.  I saw a gash in her palm, it was a cut so deep I think it may have reached the bone.  And there are marks- _ bruises _ -around her neck.  From that of a man,” he opens the drawer in his desk, pulling out a clothed object. He sits it down, unraveling it, revealing a dagger. “A few hours after the fire went out, I had some men inspect the tower, and this is what they found. Valyrian steel according to Ser Rodrik and Mikken.” she hesitantly picks it up, finger running over its hilt, the blade shimmering even in the dimly lit room. It's Valyrian steel alright. “And you know what else they found? A body. A man's body.  As well as burnt oil trails scattered within the library.  This fire was set on purpose.” she can tell he's trying to contain his fury, as much as she tries to keep her hands from trembling out of fear and anger.  _ The fire was set on purpose. _ She looks over the beautiful dagger again. Mayhaps as a distraction, but from what?  _ Bran _ , something told her.

 

“Who do you suspect?” is all she can say, but she knows her son well enough to know who he suspects, because she does as well.

 

“I'm not sure, but a few names come to mind, all of which end with Lannister,” he pauses for a moment, “But then again, I could be wrong.” 

 

“Yes, you very well could be,” but she had this strange inkling that he wasn't.  That he had the right of it.  _ Bran, it was for Bran. _ It made her think of that cursed tower, the one he fell from, the one that put him in an on going sleep. “Did anyone ever inspect the Broken Tower?” Robb gives her a look of unease, for he knows which tower this is, what it means to her.  _ Bran _ , the voice whispered once again.

 

“No,” he says admittedly, “But I'll have it searched on the morrow,” she nods.

 

“I'll come with,” she would only feel sure of the inspection if she did so herself, no one could care more than she did.  Still, they needed to discuss the girl, “We still need to talk about the girl,” the mood became even more tense. It always did when they spoke of Lyarra. Whether if it was in regards to her place within the family or Winterfell, it always dropped a ball of tension that would strain the atmosphere between them.

 

“Mother,” he says with pleading eyes, but she will have none of it.  Not when the truth was so obvious and he chooses to ignore it.

 

“Oh, don't  _ ‘mother’ _ me,” it comes out harsher than she expected, but she continues on, “Do you even realize who this girl really is? Has it registered to you yet?”

 

“She is my sister,” he says defensively, crossing his arms.  Robb could truly be stubborn sometimes when he wanted. “Despite everything, she’s my sister,”

 

“No, she isn't,” she states bluntly. The room settles into its uncomfortable silence again.  She doesn't plan for it to stay long. “She isn't even your half-sister.  That girl isn't some mere bastard either.  You said it yourself that you've seen her walk through fire. Fire! And she has not a blemish or burnt mark on her skin.  By the gods she has dragons crawling around her body as we speak!” he sits there stunned for a few moments, before looking resigned.

 

“So father lied,” it's more of a statement then a question. “All this time.”

 

“Yes, he did,”  _ he fooled us all.  Especially me.  _ “And for a good reason.  If anyone found out, under a Baratheon led rule…” she doesn't finish that thought or sentence. Not in front of Greyjoy, who stood there with wide eyes.  She wouldn't give him the pleasure of thinking about her family's heads on spikes, so much how the realm did his own. “They will soon.” she completed with a feeling of dread.  _ And it will be war when they do. _

 

“How do you think she did it?” he takes in a breath.

 

“That is something you'll have to ask her,” in truth she'd rather ignore their existence.  Would like to pretend that they never came to be. Perhaps it would be better that way, but she quickly pushes the thought away.  If what she suspects is true, about the Lannister’s and the possible catspaw, the dragons would be needed.  _ As well as the wolves, _ she adds.

 

“I saw her when she walked to the tower,” the Greyjoy finally spoke, “She was carrying a sack of some sort.  It was large and bulging with something.” her eyes narrow at that.

 

“Dragon eggs,” she says flatly, “the girl had dragon eggs.” 

 

“Where could she have possibly gotten dragon eggs?” Robb pauses for a moment, “And how did she hatch them?”

  
“They are dragons, creatures that produce fire. She hatched the dragon eggs when she was in a fire,” the thought came to her suddenly, as she looked upon the dagger, the blackened blood still crusted on the blade, “and blood.  _ Fire and blood. _ ” the words took on a whole new meaning now.  No longer were they just a long forgotten threat that lost its terror long before the Targaryen dynasty fell.  No, the dragons have come again and they will only grow bigger and stronger.  Enough to burn entire cities to the ground.  The thought made her want to shudder. “As to where she could have gotten them...only she and the gods themselves know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter but I hope you enjoy.


	5. you can't; I must

War is near, she can feel it weighing down on her shoulders, thinking back on that long strand of blonde hair.  Catelyn found it while searching through the Broken Tower, only confirming what she already knew to be true.

 

Bran’s mysterious fall, around the time the Lannister’s stayed within her home.  The sudden fire at the Library Tower and the oil trails within, all of which was to serve as a catspaw. And for what? She thought on that Valyrian steel dagger, it's sharp blade, ready to pierce. _For Bran._  This was damning evidence, all of which pointed to the Lannister’s.  

 

“Bran must have saw something he wasn't supposed to see, so they pushed him in hopes of silencing him for good.” she lifts up the dagger for all of them to see. Ser Rodrik, Robb, Theon and Luwin. She had summoned them only moments before.“When it didn't work, they sent someone to do it for them.”

 

“What do you think he saw, my lady?” Theon inquires.

 

Shakes her head, “I'm not sure, but I will find out,” there were few things he could've seen, yet none of them added up. “But whatever it was, it scared them enough to attempt murder on an innocent little boy. Twice,” she says bitterly.

 

Ser Rodrik stares at the dagger, before adding in,“It's too fine a weapon for the man we found. The blade is Valyrian steel, the handle dragonbone. Someone gave it to him.” he stated in agreement to her suspicions.

“They come into our home and try to murder my brother? If it's war they want…”

“If it comes to that, you know I'll stand behind you.” Theon added to Robb’s remark. She has a mind to chide them for their bold declaration but Luwin does it before her.  The thought of war made her anxious, but she knew it would come to that, sooner or later.  Her son in war even more so.

“What, is there going to be a battle in the Godswood? Too easily words of war become acts of war. We don't know the truth yet. Lord Stark must be told of this.” that brought her to the other point of discussion.  Informing her lord husband, of everything.

 

She turns to her son, she didn't want to do this, didn't want to abandon him once again,but she had no choice. Cat had tried think of another alternative but none came to mind “I don't trust a raven to carry these words.” she finally lets out.  At first she thought about sending a missive, when it was only about Lyarra.  But now that she thinks on it, even that would have been a folly.  How easily it can slip into the wrong hands, even under her husband's eyes. A lonely dark corner and low whispering would have to suffice.

She can see worry etch in his visage“I'll ride to King's Landing.”

“No.” She had to go herself. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I will go myself.”

 

“Mother, you can't.” he tries to sound commanding and authoritative. Like a lord.  He will do fine without me, she reassured herself.  

“I must.” And she can't deny the dread she feels, the foreboding that was there the night before, coming back with vengeance.

 

“I'll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen to escort you.” she shakes her head in refusal, but she appreciates Ser Rodrik’s concern. A large squad would attract too much attention, attention she didn't need.

 

“Too large a party attracts unwanted attention. I don't want the Lannisters to know I'm coming.”

 

The knight steps forward “Let me accompany you at least. The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone.” she nods.

“What about Bran?” his eyes are pleading with her.

 

“I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month. Bran's life is in their hands now.” The mere mention of her little boy is enough to make her think twice about this decision, but what good would anymore of her praying and weeping do for him? It made her think back on that promise she made, the promise that she broke once and remade. _Just one more chance, she had begged._ And she wasn't foolish enough to break trust with the seven again.

  
She turns to Maester Luwin, “Maester, once the girl awakes, you will see to her wounds,” _and see to her dragons if you can,_ was left unsaid but she could see the excitement in the old Maester’s eyes.  Even he marveled at the prospect of dragons, awed that he lived long enough to see their return. _Because of Snow._ Yet everyone else seemed to go tense at the mention of the girl.  Good, it wasn't just her, though they had more reason than she did.  They all witnessed what she did not.  It must have been surrealistic, perhaps even dreamlike, to see the quite little bastard girl walk from raging flames, to see her bring dragons into their time.


	6. better than dwelling

Lyarra woke hours ago, yet did little to alert anyone.  Instead, she stayed huddled up in a corner, staring warily at the creatures on the bed.  They cried and whined for her, but their cries went ignored, helpless, as she surrounded them with furs to prevent them from coming near.  Vaguely she wondered if they could easily fly from their pitiful imprisonment, if they choose to stay put simply because she wanted them to, but shook the absurd notion away. 

 

Confused and disturbed, tears threatened to spill, but she kept them at bay. The truth was quite terrifying to face, and crying seemed to be her only comfort. Her dreams had been troubled after she'd fainted in a fit of hysteria. The thought of it being a figment of her vivid imagination was compelling at first, until she realized it wasn't.  The dragons were proof of it, and the fact that she's still breathing is enough to dissuade any thoughts of disbelief.  What she'd felt had been real.  The blade that ran through her palms were real, the hands that sought to squeeze the life out of her were real, and the dragons that came after were also real.

 

The urge to sleep was strong, both body and mind exhausted, but the dreams that plagued her were nothing short of horrific. Every moment that passed molded into her memory, and each second seemed to draw out for another lifetime.  Dreams of fiery red mountains and a scorching hot sun that made her throat go dry and a land of eternal winter with white winds that blew unrelentlessly.  Dark things, that slept in the day but _ crept  _ in the night.  _   Dreams, father never put much thought into dreams. _  Perhaps she shouldn't either. 

 

Thinking of her father brought about feelings of infinite sorrow, hurt and betrayal. She wasn't so dim that the truth eluded her, Lord Stark didn't raise her to do such.  He taught her to confront her truths, no matter how harsh and painful they were. Yet  _ he _ lied.  _ Was he ever going to tell me?  _ He said he would, once he returned north. _ ‘It isn't the right time’ _ he’d said, moments before he rode from the gates of Winterfell.  Then when was the right time?  Perhaps never.

 

_ Rapespawn _ and  _ dragonspawn, that's what the realm would name me _ .  The seed of a mad man, a rapist and a murderer. It was far worse than being the bastard of a high born lord, and she found herself missing the latter. 

 

It wasn't easy to realize that she was the fruit of those actions, perhaps the cause of her mother's death. They say Lyanna died in a tower, sick from fever, alone, afraid and disgraced.  _ But no, it wasn't a fever, it was me. She died giving birth to me.  I killed my mother.  Perhaps I am a sickness.  _

 

When she was younger, she'd dream her mother was a proper noble woman, with a soft heart and kind eyes. A woman who'd love her despite all her faults.  Sometimes she’d close her eyes tightly and almost picture the woman, and many things would come to mind.  Now all she sees is a stone tomb, the face of a young woman carved into it, gone before her time.  _ Did she love me?  Could she have ever loved me?  Or did she die hating me?   _

 

Could Lyarra still name Lord Stark father? Were her siblings even her siblings anymore? Did her name even belong to her, the little it meant?

 

A shriek echoed through the room.

 

The dragons refused to quieten their shrilly wails, making her desperately wish for Ghost.  She knows the she-wolf is near, knows that she senses her owners despair.  If only she could find the strength to open the door, to let her in, so that Lyarra wouldn't feel so alone.

 

Her hand throbbed with pain from her wound, still open and raw across the palm. She’d gripped the blade so tightly while fighting for her life, that it sliced deeply into her skin. Bruises littered her sore neck and she could only assume they were purple.   Pain overwhelmed her and made her want to crawl into bed, the hard stone floor doing nothing to help her horrid state,  nor did her thin gown, that failed to block off the biting cold.

 

Holding back her tears seemed pointless, though she still bit her lip in attempts to keep them at bay.  Instead of crying, she curled into herself a little more, head nestled between the valley of her knees.  Closing her eyes, she imagined the dragons weren't there, that the scent of soot and burning flesh did not cling to her like a cloak, tried to ignore the aching of her body and baldness of her head. Just thinking about the loss of her hair was nearly enough to break her restraint.  Hair was a woman's pride after all, her’s formerly being a great mound of dark curls, and she wouldn't deny the vanity in having it.  Now she had none at all.

 

Someone knocks on the door, but she ignores it.  The only thing she wants right now is to be alone with her thoughts. But seldom does Lyarra Snow get what she wants. They continue to knock until they realize knocking is futile, entering without consent.  _ Robb... _

 

“What do you want?” her voice comes out raspy and dry and she cringed at how weak it was.

 

Lyarra looked up to see concern in his blue eyes.

 

“You should be in bed.” instantly Lyarra eyed the dragons, constricted by the furs she placed them in. Feelings become more conflicted while looking at them:apprehension, fear and vague curiosity molded into one.  

 

The creatures have quieted down somewhat, their wails reduced to faint whimpers.“I want to sleep somewhere else.” he follows her line of gaze.

 

“Alright,” he sighs. He crouches down before her, making her quizzical for a moment until he lifts her up almost effortlessly, as if she were a child. 

Her head rested on his chest and his hands rested on the small of her back and beneath her calves. The small act of intimacy was enough to put her at ease, to know that Robb still cared despite what's been revealed.

 

“You need to get that wound fixed, before it festers,” she hadn't thought about it, didn't really care for anything, not even herself.

 

“I will have to inform Maester Luwin that I changed your room.” he mumbles more to himself rather than her, but she listens all the same.  Lyarra couldn't deny that hearing someone else's thoughts were far better than dwelling on her own.

* * *

 

The milk of the poppy tasted bitter and pronounced on her tongue, but she swallows it to numb the pain the stitches are sure to cause and the maester puts alcohol and ointments that would have otherwise made her wince had she refused the milk. The ointments smelled of rose oil and rotten eggs, and she forced herself not to gag at the odor. His old withered hands move diligently with grace and care as he closes the wound.  

Lyarra allowed herself to smile a little at the Maester and he smiled back, “Thank you, Maester Luwin.”

“You're welcome, child.” he finished dressing her wound, securing the folds with his fingers “but you must refrain from using this hand as much as you can.” he got up from the seat beside her bed, gathering his equipment from the nightstand.

Soon Maester Luwin is out of the room, leaving Robb and Lyarra by themselves.  The room is filled with an awkward silence without a third party and all they do is stare at one another.  This was beyond unusual for the them, the pair were close as any siblings could be since the cradle. But now it seemed like the Wall was between them, now there's a sense of unfamiliarity.  Or maybe it was just her.  After all she felt entirely different a few moments ago, when he carried her to his room.

Lyarra couldn't bare to hold his unreadable gaze, so she averted her eyes, turning her attention to the tapestries and ornaments that decorated his chamber.  It was far more lively than her own, with large direwolf tapestries hanging on both sides of the room.  His dresser and nightstand were decorated with gifts from past nameday’s and ornaments that were light blue and orange, hinting at his Tully heritage.  Lyarra pushed down the envy she felt, thinking back on those beautiful stones that she once cherished deeply.   _ They are so much more than that _ she shook her head at the thought. 

“Are you alright?” she looks to him again and is eased at his worried gaze.   _ He still cares  _ she reminded herself with shame.  She shouldn't have thought otherwise and she shouldn't be so selfish.

“Yes, I'm fine, just…” her voice trailed off,  _ how could she explain _ ? She was emotionally exhausted, her body was tired and her mind was plagued with dark thoughts. She couldn't explain, he wouldn't understand. 

“I'm fine.” she smiled again but this time it was forced. Robb didn’t look the slightest bit convinced but nods anyway, making his way to the bed. It dips from his weight and Lyarra shifts her legs to provide more room.

“Is your hand feeling okay?” he took her hand and cradled it  looking over her wrapped palm.  Already the bandage has started to absorb the blood.  He pressed a finger down on the center, causing her to wince and snatch it away.

“No” she replied briskly and he recoiled, his stare impassive again “Sorry” she couldn't afford to push him away, wouldn't allow herself to be curt when she was already walking on eggshells. “It still hurts,” she says more diffident this time. It was more like her usual timid self, the girl Robb was used to, the one he called sister.  She can see him ease slightly, letting out a sigh. “What happened while I slept?”

“The tower” she swallowed at the mention of it “I had some men look through it, and we found the dagger and oil trails that started the fire.  It was a catspaw, for what reason we're not sure, but it might have something to do with Bran and his fall.  Mother… she's leaving for King's Landing,  to tell father. Of everything.”  Everything including her  _ but there would be no point in warning him of something he already knew. _

A part of her felt scared.  What if the king found out? Everyone knew the contempt he held for the Targaryen’s and to find out that his friend has been harboring one, one that was born from the rape of his beloved betrothed... What would he do to father? Would he spare Sansa and Arya?  Most likely not, he certainly didn't spare the Targaryen children.

“It's going to be alright, I promise” he took her good hand this time, giving it a reassuring squeeze before rising “I'll have some clothes sent to you and a bath drawn to get you properly dressed” he smiled at her for the first time since he carried her away from that room. As Robb walked to the door ready to exit he halts turning to face her again. She saw a flicker of hesitance before he spoke “What are you going to do with them?” She knew what he was referring to and to be honest she wasn't sure herself.  

  
Lyarra shrugged “Can you keep them in that room?” she wasn't certain of what to do with them, didn't even know where to begin but the same urge that drove her before wanted to see them despite her own conflicting emotions.  A feeling that felt more like fire than the ice she was used to and it manipulated her passion. “I promise I'll-” _ I don't know what I'll do, _ “I'll see to them.” he stared at her oddly, before leaving the room.

* * *

 

The coif fit her head nicely, protecting it from the northern cold.  She felt like her natural self in her woolen dress and leather boots.  Lyarra also felt clean after taking a much needed bath.  She was far more alive than she had been before, her mind had finally cleared from her prior thoughts and the steaming hot bath eased her aches.  

Her thoughts still lingered on those dragons right around the hall from Robb’s chamber.  The choice to visit them presented itself many times yet she avoided them.  Instead she spent her time with Rickon, reading him stories and playing with his toys.  He needed the attention, this she knew for certain.  The way he felt abandoned by everyone, the way he felt alone were feelings she was familiar with as a child, despite the love father gave her.  The thought makes her pause mid sentence in the story she reads now.   _ The love father gave me, _ she tried not to grimace,  _ he's not my father. _

_ “ _ Lya?” Rickon’s little voice gains her attention once again, his eyebrows furrowed in worry.  She smiled at him with assurance, ruffling his wild hair.

“I'm fine Rickon, I was only thinking about something,”

“Thinking about what?” he asked curiously. The question made her feel guilty.  Here she is, thinking ill of the child's father while sitting next to him. She blushed from embarrassment.  He stared expectantly awaiting an answer.

Lyarra sighed “Father” the word tasted bitter “I was thinking of father.” his blue eyes widen.

“You miss him to?” she doesn't want to answer that, she doesn't want to have this conversation, especially not with a boy whose six years old. “I miss all of them.  Father, Arya and Bran” he puts his head down pouting “I even miss Sansa.  And now mother has left me to.”

Rickon was truly lonely. A six year old shouldn't be so lonely.  For the past moon he's spent his time in the nursery with Old Nan. Lyarra cherished and respected the older woman, but there are only so many stories of the Others and a Blue Eyed Giant one could endure.  He needed his siblings, the little he had left to him at the moment.  Robb was too busy acting as the lord, but she had no excuse to neglect him. Her thoughts lessened the despair she felt.  Despite what happened she still regarded him as her little brother when in truth he was her cousin.  She still regarded all of the Stark children as her siblings, maybe that was something that would never change. Her fingers lightly lift Rickon's chin, her eyes staring into his “You're not all alone Rickon,” his eyes were watery and wide “I'm still here.” his mouth opens in surprise, before diving into her arms.  She held him tightly, ignoring the pain she felt on her palm. She rubbed his back soothingly, hushing his whimpers. “Let's read another story, yes?” he pulled back, nodding his head as he wiped tears from his eyes. 

They sat at his desk within his chamber with various books on top of it. Ghost and Shaggydog laid at their feet beneath the desk, snuggled together. The room was warmed by the hearth and they red by candlelight.  She was careful enough to keep the candle at a safe distance, lest she have a repeat from the night before.  Lyarra vaguely wondered if her skin would burn if she touched the little flame, she wasn't foolish enough to attempt it though.  He picked up a book larger than the last, placing it in front of them.  She stopped herself from frowning at the title. The girl had half a mind to tell him to choose again, until she saw how pleased and happy he looked.  Did she really want to ruin that for her own personal reasons?  _ No, of course not. Perhaps this will put him to sleep and give him a much needed nap. _ She breathes out in defeat, “Alright, come on” she picked up his tiny body, walking him to his bed and placing him in after.  Grabbing the book, Lyarra returned to the bed, opening it up hesitantly, “ _ The Dance of Dragons, A True Telling by Grand Maester Munkun _ ” and from there she read about the tale of Rhaeynra and Aegon the Second, the blacks and the greens, much to Rickon’s pleasure, who listened with enthused interest.  Truthfully Lyarra found it all pointless. In the end both Rhaeynra and Aegon died tragic deaths and Rhaenyra’s son ended up on the Throne. Because of the war, the dragons went nearly extinct,  _ they did go extinct _ , she thought. Perhaps that war had a part to play in the extinction.  But she couldn't deny her interest in the graphic depiction of dragons, especially when she had three of her own.  They were far bigger than hers but she imagined them growing big and powerful and imagined herself flying on dragon back. The fire that always settled in her stomach would return on every page that presented the scaly beast, and she began to resent herself for it. 

Lyarra was in mid section of the book by the time little Rickon was asleep.  She placed the book on his nightstand before placing a kiss on his forehead, smiling at his light snoring.

The smile disappeared at the thought of the dragons.   _ I'll see to them _ ,  _ I promised I would. _ But how does one go about taking care of a dragon?  Let alone three of them.  Leaving the room, Lyarra found herself walking idly down the hall not knowing what to do with herself and who she could talk to.  Rickon was her little companion and now he was asleep.  Robb was most likely busy carrying out some task and Old Nan… she wasn't in the mood for a story.  Halting in her steps, Lyarra looked up to see the chamber door, the dragons chamber door.  She bit her lip anxiously, staring intently at the knob.  Muffled screeching could be heard on the other side, it was almost like they were calling out to her, begging for her to go inside.  And despite herself she compiled, opening the door.  They stared at her with wide excited burgundy eyes.  It reminded her of her siblings when Lord Stark would bring back gifts from his trips or when Old Nan would tell a scary story.

  
Their cries mellowed as she came near to the point where she could drown them out with the rapid beating of her heart. Trembling fingers ran over silver scales that felt like silk beneath her hand. She remembered the shiny white stone and could only assume that it once belonged to this one.  It gave out a purr like sound in response to her touch. Small and fragile, the hatchling was barely bigger than a cat and she doesn't know how she came to be afraid of them in the first place. When she believed that moment in the tower would be her last they wrapped themselves around her body in attempts to comfort, this she knew for certain.  They cried for her because they wanted her, they need her, much like how Rickon needed her.  They've only been alive for a day, and were nothing but little babes. They're Lyarra’s responsibility now.   _ Like Ghost. They're like Ghost. _  She found herself on top of the bed, testing each of their scales with her fingers as they rubbed their snouts against her.  Dragons are not pets but they're not untamable monsters either. At least not to her.

* * *

 

Her eyes had fallen heavy like lead quite suddenly.  When she woke it was to the gloomy morning light and what looked like a colorful mold of wings in her first few waking moments. They're flying, she realized.  Lyarra hadn't been sure if they could fly yet, with how young they are and the fact that they didn't bother to do so before. The tiny dragons did loops and glides, almost like they were trying to show off to her, to gain approval.  She allowed herself a little smile at the sight of it.

One by one they slowly landed near her and began to lightly cry.  Biting back a groan, she lifted herself off the bed, stretching out her legs.  Hungry, they're probably hungry.  Lyarra doesn't remember eating much herself, but perhaps that was because she didn't have much of an appetite after learning the truth of her mother.  She looked at her palm, still wrapped up in bandages and a little bloody, making a mental note to get them changed soon.

Despite their cries she left the room, leaving them alone once again.  She walked down the hall to Robb’s room, which still remained empty.  The only indication that someone was in there is the slightly ajar door.  She wondered how many nights the room stayed vacant, how many nights he's spent in his solar. 

Lyarra made her way to the other side of the family wing where her initial chamber resided.  It is near the servant courtiers, but not exactly  _ in _ them.  Arya always reassured her that, even though her little sister knew better, before crying about the indignation done to her older sister.  She missed her more than anything, all tangled curls and scraped knees.  Her little partner in crime, the shadow that constantly followed her around, the only one who understood her.  Arya would always find a way to make her smile, even at times like this which had her yearning for her little sister’s presence. 

The room was a mixture of both cold and warm, with a lightly lit hearth and the open window.  It wasn't the same as she left it, for the bed was neatly made, her books and parchment were perfectly stacked, the ink wiped off of the small desk.  Clothes were laid out for her, although they weren't hers.  It was a light grey dress, soft to the touch, with a white linen underdress. She's never worn anything light and she's never had anything but tough woolen dresses that protected her from the cold.  Lyarra wondered how long it's sat here, waiting to be slipped on.  She also wondered who laid it out for her and who’s been in her room.

She closed the window, putting a stop to the invading chill, and added more wood to the hearth, rousing the flames with the poker. They danced in front of her with hues of bright white flames, a fiery orange and red that burned bright like the evening sun, and strangely she found beauty in them. 

Lyarra thought she would've been terrified of fire after what happened to her, but there was no fear to be found.  Her hand suddenly reached out to it, although with hesitance, before dipping inside.  

Immediately her mind told her to retreat from it.  The idea of sticking one's hand into roaring flames was ludicrous, absolutely insane but something possessed her to do it, perhaps the sight of the pretty flames hypnotized her into doing it, and when the fire didn't bite at her skin, she eased into it with awe and uncertainty.

Lyarra Snow had always believed she was of the north.  Had as much ice in her veins as any northerner, endured harsh winters like every northerner has, prayed to the Old Gods when her mind was troubled.  Even her name was of the north, her namesake being the daughter of a Flint and Stark.  

That is what she's always regarded herself as, a northern bred lass.  Until now.  Now all of those ideas are completely dashed out the window.  Not when she sits here, immune to the touch of fire.  The fire that feels lukewarm against her skin, the fire that melts all the ice in her veins into streams of boiling blood.  Sitting on the hard floor, she stared at her hand resting in the hearth, her mind in a daze.

The door opened and she quickly snatched her hand out.  But it was too late, for whoever it was that entered let out a small gasp, halting in the doorway, indicating that they indeed saw. 

“Lyarra!” she swallowed at the sound of Robb’s alarmed voice. His eyes shifted to the hearth, to her hand, then her again.  He wants to say something about it, she can tell, but words fail him in a way they never usually do.  She can only imagine the questions that run in his mind at the moment, questions that he knows she'll never answer.  How could she, when she doesn't understand it herself?  He’s tempted but her eyes are pleading for him to let it go, to forget he saw anything, though she doubts he can do the latter. 

“I thought I would find you in my room, I doubted you would be in here but I was greatly mistaken” he looked at her hand again, quizzical.  He walked toward her before kneeling down, so they could have eye to eye contact. 

“Lyarra, if--” his voice trailed off, “If you ever need to talk, you know you can talk to me” he sits all the way down scooting closer, grabbing her hand, “All of this, the fire, the dragons, it changes nothing between us.  You're my sister, you will always be my sister.” her eyes are widened and glistening with tears despite herself and she felt much like Rickon did the night before.

  
He gripped her arms, encompassing her into his warm embrace.  Gods but she felt like a child, and she didn't care. Her arms wrapped around him tightly as if he might disappear and in her mind she hoped that someday she'd be as good and true as Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank levanta.zilver for helping me with this chapter. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have gotten this chapter out as soon as I did. I hope you all enjoy!


	7. in due time

The Red Keep loomed dominalty on Aegon’s Hill like a menacing shadow, Rhaenys and Visenya’s hill beside it.  The people moved to and fro, in and out of inns and brothels, gambling and bargaining and selling. Merchants sold fabrics and jewelry, fruits and seasonings on almost every street.  A thick hum and a hefty must laid waste to the air she breathed. From the brew of piss and shit and gods knows what else that’s stewed in the streets of Kings Landing for hundreds of years. The presence of the sewers were well known, with the foul stench it wafted into the city. But no one seemed to pay it any mind or care, pushing past each other to reach a desired destination, only to enter yet another crowd. It was exhausting to say the least, but Catelyn progressed. It would be dusk soon, and she’d rather not be caught in Kings Landing under the blanket of night. Especially with Ser Rodrik left behind.  At least she had the golden hilted dagger for protection, lest something go wrong. She carried the Valyrian steel closely.

 

Cat had been lucky enough to slip into the city unnoticed, but not lucky enough to avoid interception it seemed.  She and Ser Rodrik had lingered in a small local inn not to far from Blackwater Bay, sleeping on simple cots and filling their bellies with porridge and bread in daily monotony. Those had been the longest days, when her thoughts were filled with treasons and plots, waiting idly for word of the King and her husband.

 

However Catelyn had felt rather dim after the royal entourage arrived.  By what means was she going to get into contact with her Ned without alerting the court of her presence? She had had half a mind to contact her friend Petyr until Ser Rodrik advised against it. Afterall, she hadn't seen the boy in years, not since the incident with Brandon, and what were the chances he’d have her best interest in mind after leaving their friendship off on such a bad note? Not to mention her families treason and the lies and secrets behind it. Of course it wouldn't hurt to have an ally in the city, one who would be in the small council with her husband, but with that reasoning she couldn't disagree with the knight, and someone reached her before she could make any sudden moves besides.

 

She carried the summon now, the smooth parchment with a spiders seal.  A little girl with blonde hair and pretty brown eyes had given it to her, placed neatly on a tray with Catelyn’s luncheon. _One of his little birds_ , Cat thought sourly.

 

She was a lady of the north now, true, but she had grown in the south, under the Mad King’s reign when the Spider had ruled as Master of Whispers then. Reeling in all those who opposed the madman, those who whispered of his tyranny and madness, only to be consumed by the raw green flames of wildfire. Her father had hated the Mad King as much as he had feared him. _Lyarra’s grandfather._ A shiver went down her spine at the thought.

 

Secrecy is a hard task mistress in this Viper’s pit, truth and honesty even more so. Whatever his intent for summoning her, the Spider knew. He knew and her husband still has a head on his shoulders and her children aren't hostages of war.  That had to count for something, and she’d rather confront the eunuch and swindle whatever information and alliance she could from him, rather let him slip through her fingers with the knowledge of her family's wrongs. She held onto the dagger tighter.

 

She ignored the churning of disgust and fear swelling in her stomach as she edged near the labyrinth of sewers in the distance.   _Gods, how could anyone live like this._ Cat halted in her steps for a brief moment, basking in the brief silence.  There was nary a soul around, and she could only guess why. Then she felt a light tug on her skirts.  Her eyes were quick, whipping her skirts around to face the culprit.

 

It was a young boy, no older than Bran, with curious eyes illuminated by torchlight. A dirty, gaunt face, seemingly innocent. She allowed herself to feel both wariness and pity for the boy.  

 

“Follow me milady.” the command held no room for question. He’s done this before, another little bird. The flat of his feet pattered on the muddy ground, leading her further from the busy city, further into the darkness. Seven be with her.

 

Only by the grace of his torchlight were they not consumed by total darkness.  It was like stepping into another reality apart from the bustling Kings Landing and the North altogether.  Something dark and mysterious to be held with precaution, a place where the masterminds and game players handled their battles.

 

Her boots splashed in the dispersed puddles with every other step, and the further they went the more the opening of the tunnel shrinked in size, until it was nothing but a little speck she hopelessly looked back on.  

 

The child confidently led her down the long paths and winded turns, swiftly dodging the vermin that lurked in the shadow of his light. Catelyn was less graceful when she felt the scurrying of small tiny feet crawl over her boots. Tunnels within tunnels, and tunnels adjacent to tunnels that led to more tunnels. All twisting and turning to the point that she was sure if she wanted to escape she’d never live to find her way back. Until they reached a steep cellar staircase leading to an opening through the ceiling.  Where dim light seeped through, casting a circular glow on the stone floor.

 

He began to climb up, and she followed suit, treading carefully on the grime riddled steps.  When they finally reached the top, she felt as if she could breathe again closing her eyes with a relieved sigh, basking in the stale yet fresh air. But when she opens them, it’s to the sight of dark smokey skulls with hollow eyes. She nearly falls down from the sight of them, and is reminded of what hides in Winterfell.  Three little dragon hatchlings that will only get bigger, stronger, and deadly.

 

The skulls were aligned on each side of the cellar, all large in size.  She could only imagine them at their prime, when they were alive and their heads were attached to their just as massive bodies.

 

Maybe she stares at the remnants of Balerion the Black Dread that turned Harrenhal into a cursed ruin or Vhagar who won the fealty of the Vale alone.  Other dragons with names she hadn't cared to remember the name of as a child. They were both proud and disgraced, regarded and discarded. King Robert’s trophies, gone and forgotten.

 

 _How long will that last though?_ She thought wearly. _Not long._

 

“Lady Stark.” a man clad in expensive silks came into view, head bald and shiny with oils. He strolled with a grace even she couldn't master, and his mere presence seemed out of place in such a room.

 

With an unreadable tranquil mask, he met her face to face. “You have no idea as to how pleased I am you answered my summon. Come, walk with me,”

 

“Perhaps there could have been better ways to summon my presence?”  she retorted pointedly. It bothered her how everything played out. Perhaps contacting Petyr wouldn't have been such a bad decision.  Someone who she knew well and grew up with, not some mysterious stranger who had children invade the privacy of others. How long had that little girl stalked Catelyn? Changing her sheets and chamber pot, brining her meals to her room as requested, just waiting for a moment to strike.  The Inn Keeper had not known of a blonde haired girl with brown eyes, had stared at Cat as if the woman had two heads when she inquired.

 

“Yes of course, but none that would have kept your whereabouts unknown. And besides, I had to get to you first before someone else did.  Kings Landing is a place filled with many dangers my lady.” he replied impishly with a smile, though it soon faded away into something more impassive and dire. “Especially with a matter such as this.”

 

 _A matter your little birds informed you of_ , she wished to say, but now was not the place or the time.  It wouldn't do to let him know that she knows there are spies in her household.

 

“How did you know?” she feigned ignorance.

 

“Little escapes my ears, Lady Stark.”

 

 _Though as of recently your husband has proved that statement false,_ his brief silence seemed to say.

 

“How amusing that the greatest kept secret in Westeros escaped your knowledge for a large amount of time, my lord.” It felt good to know that Ned managed to outwit a great mastermind like Varys, the man who had a whole network of spies running throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Even the Spider hadn't known, Catelyn had not been the only one fooled, even with all the clues laid out before her.

 

“Yes, how amusing in deed.” his voice held a curious tint.  Immediately her hackles went up.

 

“But now you know, and you have yet to tell the king? Isn't it your duty to report all things to the king you serve?” she trusted the man not.  If he would betray his own king what makes her think he would not betray her if she didn't benefit his schemes and plans? She had no doubt he’d turn her in right now if he’d seen fit.

 

“Of course, as it befits my title. Would you rather me leave you here instead and do so?” her lips pursed into a thin line.  She wouldn't give him an answer, but her silence seemed satisfying enough. “I still my tongue with this information because it is not my desire to see yet another war ravage these lands. Something that the king has been vying for in the past coming years. I find that good warriors do not make good kings, my lady,” he tittered lightly.

 

“Why did you summon me hear Lord Varys?” she was tired of the games.

 

“Isn't it your wish to see your husband? I seek to grant that wish.”

 

“In exchange for what?” she replied curtly.

 

He only tittered again. “In due time my lady. In due time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back finally. I know, it's been a long time coming, but you know...life kinda sucks and likes to ruin good things. Anyhow, I just want to let you guys know that Welcome Home Snow might be on a hiatus. I don't know where to go with that story as it has been so long and just...tbh I cringe at my old writing and plot, and how I write the characters. Over the last few months I've been working on improving my writing for this very reason, and I hope it showed in this chapter. I may very well scrap Welcome Home Snow and do a do over because that is just one big ole mess that needs to be cleaned up. So if I'm going to do anything with this series it's finishing The Burning Tower and getting a start on The Death of Duty;The Bane of Honor which by the way I will be working on with @BySpaceByTime. We talked a little on tumblr recently (I follow her) and decided to do a collaboration together for Gender-swap Jonerys, which means many changes for the fic, but it should be pretty good. So once she finishes her story Bondage for Dany and the one for fem Jon after (basically the prequels) we'll work together on mine. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this long awaited chapter. Really sorry for that long wait, but I'm glad I was worth waiting for.


	8. don't try me

Bran was awake.  It had happened so suddenly. The once quiet halls were alive again with people moving to and fro, busy with cleaning and dressing his little brother, placing him in new chambers and clearing out the old one.

 

Robb himself had yet to see him, for all that he gave the servants and maids instruction on how to handle him.  Maester Luwin claimed it would be a short while before Bran could consume solids once again, and until then he’d have to wean on portions of sweet honey and milk.

 

Once upon a time, he would have rushed to his brother's chambers in all haste, bombarding the poor child with questions and a suffocating worry.  But after dealing with Lyarra, he’s had a better idea of dealing with such situations at hand.

 

_He needs time_ , he told himself. Bran needed sleep, real sleep that wasn't coma induced, and time to come to terms with his lack of mobility.  _Bran had always wanted to be a knight._ Something painful twisted in Robb’s throat. Would his brother ever be the same? Would Lyarra? Had he not fallen he’d probably be squiring for one of the Kingsguard, to become one himself for when Sansa became queen. Queen.  The thought caused a brief pause, his mind wandering to Lyarra again. There was no doubting who his sister was, or at least who her real father was, and perhaps it should give him comfort that his father never dishonored his mother or an anonymous woman. That he was honorable through and through, and his honor dictated that he protected Aunt Lyanna’s child but… was he ever going to tell anyone? Was he ever going to tell Lyarra or his mother? After so many years of unwarranted animosity and coldness toward each other, both had deserved the truth.

 

And now Sansa will have to marry that little prick, marry into a house who may very well become house Stark’s enemy.  Who may very well have been conspirators in Bran’s fall and the burning tower.

 

Lyarra was still shaken over that.  Her night’s sleepless and her days restless, with only Rickon and Ghost to keep her company.  At least she sought out the dragons now, more so than she used to, and had taken to bringing them milk with bits of mutton.  Something the creatures seemed to favor. _Dragons._ Robb hasn't quite gotten over that, or the fact that his own sister was the one to hatch them, and walked through a spiraling wall of flames to do so.

 

They didn't seem to mind him, the creatures, at least when Lyarra was around.  But he vaguely remembers them hissing when his mother stood in his sister's chambers.  That did not bode well.

 

For the past fortnight, Robb busied himself with the reconstruction of the Library Tower, hiring masons and calculating the cost for more timber and stone.  Even entertained the idea of repairing other towers along with the battlements and turrets of Winterfell. It would be too costly, and winter was coming, but the idea just wouldn't go away.  Not after what’s happened to his family so far.

 

And then he receives a raven that Lady’s remains are to be returned. That an incident between the Crown Prince and Robb’s sisters had occurred to where killing the sweet direwolf pup had been the final outcome.  By the orders of the queen. What else was the queen willing to do for the sake of petty vengeance?

 

_Dark wings, dark words_. Robb had been receiving a lot of that lately.  From Lady’s death to Uncle Benjen’s disappearance beyond the Wall. And now the incoming arrival of the Imp. The dwarf was a days ride away, according to the raven he received, and would soon be seeking Winterfell’s hospitality.

 

Oh, Robb would show him hospitality.  All the hospitality a Lannister deserved beneath Winterfell’s roof.

 

He looked to the tall dresser next to the vanity in his solar, and what lies within beneath lock and key.  His fingers twitched to deposit the key from within his desk drawer.

 

Robb did in the end, sauntering over to the large oakwood dresser, and unlocking the iron lock.  He reached inside, gripping the length of the pelt covered scabbard and the thick hilt. _As tall as I am, and as wide as my own hand if not wider._  He went back to his desk, unsheathing the dark smoky blade.

 

Robb thoughts lingered on the conversation he had with his father before he left.

 

_He sits behind a great ironwood desk like an imposing figure, with snarling wolves engraved at the ends of each side, his hand shifting through letters and paperwork.  The banner of House Stark looming overhead._

 

_“Father,” his voice breaks through the silence. His lord father lifts his head from his letter, studying Robb’s form, before gesturing toward the chair sitting opposite._

 

_“Have a seat,” he continues to watch Robb as he sits down.  It sends chills through his body. “There's an important matter I need to discuss with you, Robb,”_

 

_It's silent for a moment before he starts again. “As you know, the king has chosen me as his hand” Robb nods “ I'll be taking Bran,  along with Sansa and Arya. I won't be here, meaning-” he paused “Meaning you'll have to act as the Stark in Winterfell, while I’m gone.”_

 

_The thought made him feel anxious. The Stark in Winterfell.  Was he ready for that? To rule over people, to have those people depend on him in turn? The north is vast and wide and it'll be his responsibility to rule over it all.  That thought did nothing to help the nerves building up. His father seemed to sense his unease._

 

_“Robb, I know you're scared and I understand son, I do.”, he considers his next words, “ I was never supposed to be the lord of Winterfell.  My father never trained me for it, it was always supposed to be your Uncle Brandon. But then- What happened...happened and suddenly lordship was thrust upon me.  It wasn't easy, it never is. But I endured and you'll endure too. You've been trained for this since you were a boy, you'll fare far better than I ever have. I know you will.”.  the grey eyes of his father met his blue ones, and they regarded him with the love only a father convey for his son._

 

_Robb had to force himself not to tear up.  His father believed in him, believed he was capable.  Although it didn't ease most of his worries, it was enough to know that the man he looked up to had faith in him._

 

_“Thank you, father.” He gives him an appreciative smile and his father returns it before going solemn again. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor, his tall form rising from the seat.  Walking to the large ironwood closet his father retrieved a scabbard made of thick wolf fur. Immediately, Robb recognized the item, and his heart beat a little faster. The hilt was wide and the entire length of it was longer than himself. Eddard Stark held it before him and Robb abruptly stood to his full height._

 

_“This sword has been in our family for more than four centuries,” he began, “Each Stark that's held it has held it because they were the Stark in Winterfell,” the scabbard is placed in his hands and he tried his best to keep them from trembling, “And now you will hold it as well, in all things.” father's large hands gripped his broad shoulders, “I, Lord Eddard Stark bestow this upon you, Robb Stark, along with the responsibility that comes with it as the Stark of Winterfell,”._

 

He often ran his fingers over the dark smokey blade with the threat of cutting himself, a risk he was willing to take just to regard the beautiful craftsmanship.  Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel. It helped him remember his father's words and the trust instilled in him when the days were too long and the night’s too short. It made him wonder if father ever said anything to Lyarra, perhaps in regards to her mother, if he ever hinted at her true identity.

 

A knock sounded on his door.  “Come in.” he gently placed the sword back in the scabbard, laying it across his lap.

 

The door opened to reveal Lyarra before shutting it gently. She wore a brown cowl over a simple grey woolen dress, head covered to hide her baldness.  The thought was amusing. Besides the dragons she had been seeking out his company as well, telling him about the goings of her day. From bone lace and knitting, discussions with Maester Luwin in regards to the hatchlings and taking care of Rickon.  It was a small comfort, listening to her talk, and watching as she slowly stitched herself back together from the ruin she’d fallen into.

 

“I visited Bran.” she pulled a chair around, sitting adjacent from him.

 

He feared the answer but asked on anyway. “How was he? Is he recovering well? Does he remember anything?”

 

“As well as anyone can recover after taking such a fall, and waking up not being able to move his legs.  He’s sullen and as far as I know doesn't remember anything,” she frowned, biting down on her lip. “You know how much he wanted to be a knight.”

 

Robb repressed his anger.  It wasn't fair. It bothered him to no end that someone felt comfortable enough to do it, in their home no less. In Bran’s home, the one place his little brother should feel safe in above all else.  And the fact that they’ve gotten away with it. What were the chances his mother would find the culprit? Would that justice be served? He clinched the hilt of Ice.

 

“I heard about Uncle Ben,” she spoke solemnly after a moments silence. “There has been no word of him since?  No clues as to what could have happened?”

 

Lyarra had always been close to Uncle Ben out of all of their father’s children, and Uncle Ben was known to dote on Lya the most in a way that used to make Robb boil with envy. Now Robb had an inkling as to why.  Did Uncle Ben know the truth as well? Father always said in his youth Uncle Benjen had been close to Aunt Lyanna, it only made sense that he’d favor her daughter as well.

 

“No, I’m sorry.” he reached for her hand at the sight of her crestfallen face, giving it a tight reassuring squeeze that she hesitantly returned. Her hand was pale and dainty in his palm.  “I’ve had no word from the Watch since. But wherever he is, I know Uncle Benjen is strong. He’s a Stark of Winterfell, he’ll endure.” He could be dead, it wasn't uncommon for rangers to go missing and never return.  Robb wasn't daft enough to say that though. Another reason being he didn't want to believe it himself.

 

“Rickon is taking to Maester Luwin’s lesson’s again, with my persuasion of course.” she softly chuckled, a pretty smile on her lips. “A difficult child that one, but he means well. He’s only lonely. Perhaps he could take sword lessons with you and Theon during the noon? I’m so busy with the hatchlings, and Maester Luwin gave me a treasure the other day. A hand copied description of Septon Barth’s work: Unnatural History. There are only a few copies remaining in the world.  He wants me to read it, and draw my own conclusions and thoughts… I never knew the man to be so mischievous.”

 

He cringed. “I’ll have to think about it.” she lifted an eyebrow at that.

 

“He enjoys my company, but he needs his brother, Robb.  There’s only so much a sister can do for him.”

 

He felt guilty at that.  It wasn't that he didn't particularly like his little brother, but the child was...well he had the wolfs blood, father called it. And he was so young and cried when he didn't get his way, a terrible cry,  damning all reasoning. But he could tell Lyarra needed the space, if only for one part of the day.

 

“Well, I don’t see why not,” he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ve been so busy lately I’ve seemed to have forgotten about everything else. The Imp will be here soon, on the morrow, so Rickon will have to wait until then.” he sneered. “The Lannister is the last thing I want to deal with but duty calls.”

 

“He’s not all that bad you know?” she muttered.

 

“What?”

 

“I said he’s not a bad man.  Well, not entirely. Perhaps he is sharp of word and a little obnoxious at first glance, but I wouldn't write him off so quickly.”

 

“He’s related to the people who may have very well tried to kill our brother. The same family who probably wants all of us dead.  Did you know the queen had Lady killed?”

 

She sat there, wide-eyed and stunned at the revelation. “No I didn't know that.” she shook the shock away. “But surely you’ll still offer him proper hospitality?” she eyed the scabbard in his lap warily.

 

“I’m not a fool Lyarra,” despite the fact that he did have thoughts of greeting the lord with sword visible and threatening on the throne of winter. “I’ll give him his bread and salt.”

 

The fondness she seemed to hold for the Imp unsettled him.  He liked it not. “And when he does arrive you will be nowhere in sight,” the hurt that flashed in her eyes made him bite back a curse.  The last thing he needed her thinking was that he was ashamed of her. “It wouldn't do well for him to see you in such a state. He might try to ask questions, and the last thing we need is a Lannister revealing your identity. To say nothing of his reputation.”

 

She nodded her head at that, the initial hurt vanquished. “Is that father’s sword?” she gestured toward his lap, derailing the conversation.  Robb smiled at that, beaming with pride.

 

“Aye it is, he gave it to me before journeying south.”

 

She perked up with enthuse.“Then the one he carried before he left was-”

 

“It was northern steel. Father is a formidable swordsman, it will be just as effective.”

 

“You’ll have to write to him soon, about Bran waking. He’ll be happy to know I’m sure.” she herself didn't sound happy.

 

“And what of you?” he gently inquired. “Will you write father as well?  You promised you would.”

 

Silence reigned for a moment. He groaned at her uncertainty. “He’s still your father Lyarra, just as much as I’m still your brother.”

 

“I know that!” she snapped, a scowl forming on her brow, before catching herself.  She was prone to doing that, snapping at him, a fierceness that hatched along with her dragons. It amused him as much as it startled him, to see his usually meek sister see red. “I just don’t know what I’d say to him knowing what I know.  Anything but speaking of the truth would be false of character, however, and it’s too dangerous to speak of truth.”

 

“Fair enough.” Robb would leave the matter be for the time being.

 

A sudden knock on the door drew them out of the conversation. It swung open as Theon stepped in hectically.  “The Imp is here.”

 

Robb immediately rose in from his seat.  “What the hell do you mean the bloody Imp is here? He wasn't supposed to be here until the morrow.”

 

“The bastard caught us off guard it seems.” he saw Lya wince at the word, before standing rigidly.

 

“I’ll return to my chambers then.” Theon suddenly noted her presence, a strange glint in his eyes as she moved past him.  The same one he held when he was looking at a pretty kitchen wench or a new foreign whore in the pleasure houses. His eyes still lingered at her after she left the solar. Then Robb remembers Theon saw his sister naked.

 

His eyes turned to steel. “Theon,” his said warningly, getting his friends attention. He had been undressing her with his eyes, Robb realizes, trying to recapture the image of her bare flesh. “You are my friend, and I love you like a brother, but I’d advise you not to undress my sister with your eyes as if she were a common wench again.”

 

The older boy just smiled. “Oui Robb, you know I meant no harm in it.” he wasn't even going to deny it. Robb rolled his eyes, grabbing his father's sword.

 

“I’m serious Theon, don’t try me.”

 

“I won’t,” he shrugged. “I’m more afraid of that wolf of her’s than you besides.” Robb resisted the urge to smile. Not when he had to meet the Imp, whose presence caught them unawares.  He had to don his lord’s face, like father. Hard and smooth as stone.

 

“Go fetch Maester Luwin and tell him to lead the Imp to the Great Hall.  That’s where I’ll be waiting for him.”

 

* * *

 

The day had been long and torturous and drained him much of everything by the end of it. The only beacon had been a raven from Robb. Bran was awake, and that had given Ned immense joy for a small part of the day before it further succumbed into its usual calamity.

 

Gods, who knew the Crown was in such a horrendous state, drowning in a wayward of debt not only to Tywin Lannister but the Iron Bank as well among others.  A debt that wasn't in the slightest bit tangible. Seven hells, where would he even begin to decrease that? Was it possible? To say nothing of Robert’s endless habit of drinking, whoring and throwing tourneys. And eating, eating as well. The king was less than a shadow of the man he once knew in his youth, and he seemed to get fatter and redder by the day.

 

Then there was Robert’s court, half Lannister and half Baratheon, each side filled with nothing but lickspittles and cronies who wouldn't tell Robert what he needed to hear but more of what he wanted to hear.

 

Six million golden dragons in debt. Gods help him.

 

Then there was the matter of Jon Arryn.  Being Hand of the King has taken away time for investigation, and that was the only reason why he came, not to handle all of the problems the Crown has made for itself.

 

The girls had been his only escape for peace and even then that grew tiresome.  The two were as different as the sun and the moon for all they were two sides of the same coin. Syrio Forel would be good for Arya. There was no changing who Ned’s precious little girl was at heart, no forcing her into becoming a lady. The gods be willing, Ned could find her a husband who’d feel the same.

 

Then there was Sansa, his sweet child of summer, so innocent and naive.  It would do her little good in a place like Kings Landing. _The sooner I solve Jon Arryn’s murder the sooner we can all leave._

 

Sansa didn't have to necessarily stay in Kings Landing with her husband to be.  They swore oaths to the gods, after all, him and Robert, that this betrothal would go through where the previous hadn't.  It would still be honored even if Sansa remained in the North. His daughter would hate him for it, he knew, she was enamored with the south and all its splendor compared to the cold dreary north.  But North was home, and North was where he could keep her safe from all the vultures and manipulators that plagued the Viper’s Pit.

 

_And Spiders._ He thought sourly as he trailed behind Lord Varys. Ned had no clue as to why the man woke him from his stupor at the Hour of the Wolf, but he hoped it was in regards to Jon Arryn and any information he was willing to spare.  Finally.

 

They walked silently down the halls, and the eunuch had insisted Ned where a dark brown cloak fit for a stable master than a Lord Paramount. _To blend in, to disappear,_ had been the Spider’s reasoning. The man wore one as well, and he looked different from the plump perfumed lord garbed in expensive silks from the Free Cities. He looked to be a different person entirely when hooded beneath the hood of his cloak.

 

The walls were aligned with burning torches and sweet oil pots, the melding scents almost suffocating in the heat.

 

The cellar beneath the Red Keep is their destination, filled with the remnants of the Targaryen’s dragons.  Their eyes were empty and hollow, skulls dark and smoky like Valyrian steel.

 

“Why did you take me here my lord?” he spoke for the second time that night. The first time he’d inquired why the strange man was at his chamber door in the dark of night. _Follow me my lord,_ had been the eunuch's only response.  

 

Before he could speak again a shadowy figure slipped from behind one of the skulls.  He immediately reached for a sword that wasn't there, cursing himself as he remembered in his grogginess he’d forgotten it. What a folly that had been.

 

When the figure turned around to face them his heart nearly stopped, rebounding in shock at the sight of bright auburn curls and sky blue eyes. _I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair._ How he missed her so, and he would have been joyful to see her had it been under different circumstances.

 

“Cat?” he strutted toward her “Why are you-” she stopped him in his tracks with the back of her hand, a sting settling on his left cheek. What did he _do_?

 

“I know Ned.” her blue eyes were furrowed, lips gnarled like the Heart Tree in Winterfell’s Godswood. “I know who the girl's mother is and I know who _she_ is.”

 

Oh. _Oh_ . He’d choose a small council meeting over this any day. Ned stood there, dumbfounded, at lost for words.  There were so many things he could say, a thousand apologies he could utter, but the moment he’d open his mouth he knew he’d make a fool out of himself.   _Women always find out Ned, women always know,_ the voice of an old friend echoed in his mind.

 

“Don't look so in awe my lord, that’s not even the tip of the iceberg.” she continued on, and all he could do was stand there in miserable silence. How did she know? Someone had to have told her, someone like Varys.  Soon the impish eunuch was under Ned’s sharp gaze, and he wished he’d brought his sword with him. “There was a fire Ned, and she survived it. She _survived_ it. Do you hear me? Do you understand what I am telling you? Look at me!”

 

He did, at the mention of a fire, his gut twisting in dread.

 

“Please my lady, you would do well to keep quiet,” Varys whispered hastily but they both ignored him.

 

“What do you mean there was fire? She was in a fire?” Ned’s palms started to sweat in panic, and he felt fit to faint. “How? Why-”

 

“It doesn't matter!” she snapped. “The girl is fine!”

 

“How could she be fine?!” he found his own voice rising.  So much fear and worry. “You just said she was in a fire!” It was the worst way to break his sisters promise, the worst way to fail, the worst way to die.  Even if Lyarra lived she’d suffer from hideously painful wounds for the rest of her life.

 

“My lord, my lady, please. Silence.” the Spider’s voice grew distant with every rapid heartbeat. Gods but Ned felt nauseous, a tingling sensation clouding his mind.

 

“I know what I said dammit! The girl is in no way harmed. She made it out alive _and_ unburned!”

 

Ned and Lord Varys both fell silent.

 

“Hm, that’s...unexpected.” the perfumed lord contemplated on the information that had been dealt him.  And then it came to Ned that the man was there, privy to the conversation, to the treason. “ My little birds had told me of that, but words are wind.” Varys knew. Oh no, he knew.  Ned had the sudden urge to throttle the man or choke the life out of him. Both would have worked had he not felt so suddenly weak.

 

He’d been on the forefront of countless battles, so close to death, and never felt so perturbed. He sauntered over to the nearest wall, leaning against it.

 

“What do you know of this Lord Varys.” his voice was dark and hoarse.  He was so tired. For weeks on end, he’d been denied a decent amount of rest and missed numerous meals when duty obliged him to.  Tonight was supposed to be different until Varys brought him here.

 

“Everything there is to know my lord.”

 

“Ned?” Cat’s voice softened tremendously, her eyes glowing like sapphires in the torchlights aligned on the wall. Suddenly he was falling, though very slowly, and everything turned into a blurry haze before darkness consumed him.


End file.
